


The Condemned Bay at Shattered Things

by Maromar



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Multiple Pov, multiple OCs - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-12 00:42:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7913731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maromar/pseuds/Maromar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young case 53 wakes up in Brockton Bay at the on the dawn of the most inopportune time period of Earth Bet.  </p><p> </p><p>An extensive writing exercise that takes place in Wildbow's "Worm" verse. Divergent plotlines and the addition of characters and concepts abound.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pup 1.1

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I could read with any level of comprehension, I would pour myself into the world of fiction, burning through books in a matter of days, hours even, if I could get away with locking myself in my room. It only seems natural in retrospect than, that my passing moments spent not reading would drift towards creating things to read. It's like a disease, or better yet, a cabal of succubi, the plot-bunnies. They crawl their way to my ears, whispering sweet tales of worlds unbuilt, of terrors unchallenged, and heros untested. All of which can come to fruition with but a few strokes of my quill. There is but one problem.
> 
> I do not consider myself a good writer.
> 
> Until I feel as though I am able to please the cabal, I temper my writing prowess within the playground of established works, hence, the fanfic before you, dear reader.
> 
> Despite its use as a writing exercise, I fully intend for this work to be enjoyable. Lord knows I enjoyed writing it. The cannon Wormverse, despite its considerable length leaves many of its characters out of the limelight. Dusting off the web serial left me wanting to know more of people like Lung, Bakuda, Canary. So I find myself baking bread with the crumbs left over from a giant's feast.... while adding a little dough of my own.
> 
> I'll stop prattling. If you have yet to read Worm, by Wildbow, I highly suggest you do so now. It is very rare to find fiction that is free, long and good.

Within the dilapidated storehouse, scant sunlight struggled against dust covered windows. There only other point of ingress where through pockmarks in a roof of cheap, rusted sheet-metal. The structure may have been a small clothing store in a past life. A number of decaying mannequins were strewn amongst slightly less decayed crates, most of which were smashed, shimmied, or cut open. Only the toughest of containers remained unmolested; any abandoned venue was an open love letter to looters in Brockton Bay.

 

A long creak echoed. From my vantage point atop a side rail, two open stories above, I squinted to make out the figures that dipped inside.

 

Two young men, if one could consider the short, scrawny things, as such, bore aluminum bats and shifty dispositions. They flanked a much larger man, well tanned, well muscled, and easily six foot five, probably taller. He held nothing in his hands, though the bulge and glint of metal in his hoodie's pocket marked him as a high-priority target.

 

Six-Five bellowed out, “Alright! Time to pay your rent!” I tightened my grip on the railing.

 

The task was spelled out simply: 'scare the shit outta them so they don't come back'. Waltzing down the steps to say hi wouldn't have much of an effect, with or without a costume. Most capes weren't immune to bullets, and I feared that the first reaction to seeing an unknown would be to test out my lead resistance. If I wanted a fair chance at preventing a brawl, I had to get rid of the gun or taser in Mr. Tall's pocket.

 

“'Wouldn't be surprised if the asshat's a no-show.” One under-thug said.

 

They idled themselves with exchanges of crass humor and swung their bats at thrown blocks of cement. Six-Five stood near the entrance, he would glance this way or that, humming a slow tune that I didn't recognize. With my power, I could feasibly wrest the contents of his pocket away, but only if he was within a few meters of me. Much to my frustration, he didn't move any closer to the upper platform. Did Mook Etiquette 101 not teach students to check behind boxes and corners for hidden people?

 

“Thirty minutes past six, Darin. Let's bounce.” The shorter of the two youths reached over to tap his fellow on the shoulder, only for Six-Five to shake his head, raising a hand for silence.

 

“Nah. We can't go back with nothing. There's a little thrift shop a few minutes down the road. That way.” He pointed towards an exit on the opposite side of the building. “Break a few windows, nab a cash register, and leave 'em a note. The next time we come around, we charge double the normal rate.”

 

“And if they don't pay after that?”

 

“Then we'll bug Skid-.”

 

Releasing a grunt of frustration, I went limp. A two story drop should have been terrifying, or at least provoked a moment's pause before the plunge, but a part of me dismissed that notion as ridiculous. My power felt like a piece of me that was, has, and always will be there, rather than an awkward addition to an existing model. Acrobatic feats were trivial matters, and vast, empty spaces of air were just pathways I haven’t built yet.

 

The material that I generated wasn't light, but it held a dull glow of green, it would come out with similar properties to plastic unless I focused on some other substance while it manifested. With but a thought, slab after slab of hard pseudo-mass formed a ramp under my feet, the heels of my steel-toed boots screeching on the way down. Floating atop a single platform was possible, but far less efficient. Whatever my body used for fuel rested in what I could only describe as a second stomach. The rate at which its contents shrank when I forced my creations to bear weight was much greater than controlling or even bringing them into the world.

I didn't think of rolling, not consciously; it was a more of a knee-jerk reaction. I dove forward in one fluid motion before hitting the concrete. The landing was unpleasant, but felt much better than breaking my legs.

 

I allowed my tails to drift on either side, covering them in enough pseudo-mass to illuminate my form. Full firefighter's garb, painted black to match my hair with yellow bunches of material near the ends of the jacket and pants. It didn’t look cool, but it did cover the damage done by cutting the original fabric to size.

 

Neither Six-Five, nor the baseball kids seemed impressed.

 

Darin, smirked, “You supposed to be a cat or something?”

 

“Nah, I think it's a raccoon; bushy tails. You got our money?”

 

Six-Five held out his hand, at which I frowned before realizing that he couldn’t see my face through the gas-mask's tinted screen. The helmeted section also covered my vulpine ears, which would undoubtedly make a serious threat harder to pull off.

 

I fished through my pockets, producing a single strip of paper. Wrapping a corner in pseudo-mass and hovering it over to him took a bit of concentration, but I managed to make the gesture appear smooth. It reached him without issue, meaning the trio was well within range.

 

“What am I looking at?”

 

“A tab for the exact amount that my employer and her associates have paid while under your 'protection', plus an extra fee to cover the free service some of your members have demanded.”

 

“That's cute.” Six-Five tore the paper in two and spit at one of its pieces, striking it before it fell. He probably practiced the maneuver. “Now go get Senna, and tell that bitch to bring four grand with her.”

 

“You do know what's going on here, right?”

 

“I know what you’re trying to do, and I'm givin' ya a chance to scram, or get us our money. I ain't afraid of no third-rate cape.” He advanced a bit, puffing out his chest like some predatory animal warning others away from its turf. The other two took it as a cue to fan out to either side of me, loosely held bats raking across the floor.

 

To be honest, the intimidation tactic worked a bit. I was no Alexandria package, my bones snapped just like any other human being. Running, however was not an option. It wasn't a matter of finding someone else to work for. Senna pulled my soaking body from a dirty, alley. She fed and clothed me for a month, even paid to get me into an online high school class. If she asked me to do something far more dubious than the task at hand, I would have a hard time saying no.

 

“Can't do that, I'm afraid. You need pay the tab and... hold on.” I produced another sheet of paper, bringing the tail to my right a bit closer so I could make out the handwriting. I cleared my throat.

 

“Suspend immediately, all gang operations on Wilson street and any location within a seven block perimeter of it. Your territory tags will be scrubbed clean and replaced with a single line of blue paint, marking said perimeter.”

 

“Listen kid, I ain't playin' with ya.” He drew his weapon, a handgun, as I suspected. The bit of pseudo mass still attached to the paper went up the man's nose before he could brandish it. Whatever Six-Five tried to say next was marred by a sputtering fit, I jolted forward and smacked the gun away from his hand, like they do in movies, and instantly regretted it. The gun was hard, my hand was soft.

 

Grasping, my stinging palm, I materialized a faux octopus tentacle about twice my size to swipe at the gun before it left my range, sending it much further away. A satisfying clang reported that it got caught on the catwalk above.

 

Without missing a beat, both baseball kids set upon me. Darin's first swipe was aimed too low to duck, so I jumped over it. In a move that should have broken my spine, I twisted myself in midair to parry his companion’s vertical swing with a length of hastily produced pseudo-mass.

 

As soon as my feet returned to the ground, I lowered my stance and barreled into him, shoulder first, before he could recover his grip. We both went to the ground, knocking over one of the mannequins in the process.

 

“Surrender!” I shouted.

 

He offered a headbutt in rebuttal. The groan that followed wasn't mine; my opponent curled into a ball, rolling onto his side. Did he expect a better result than that? A blow to the crotch with his knee or even an elbow to my somewhat exposed neck would have served him much better.

 

I heard Darin's bat before I felt it, a whoosh that sent chills down my spine. I knew it was coming, I even knew where it was coming. I also knew that there was absolutely nothing I could throw up in time to stop it. There wasn't time to utter so much as a whimper before it struck my arm. I'd fallen on my limbs from pretty fair distances while practicing. This felt ten times worse. There was no telltale snapping of bones or white poking out of my jacket, but it hurt like there should have been.

Roaring, and with tears clouding my vision, I rounded on him. Thinking only of throwing something back in retribution. What came out resembled nothing like plastic; a sphere materialized amid a terrible crackling, like a current running through ruined power outlets. Much brighter than my usual creations, it surged forward, flecks of material falling off on its path. The look of horror on Darin's face was well lit.

 

I tried to rein it in, but its forward momentum was far too great. Only Darin's swift reflexes saved him. He ducked, covering his head. The projectile slipped past my range, still holding enough energy to see it to the wall. And through it.

 

For a moment we both gazed upon my handiwork. A mannequin was in the way of the blast. It was missing a third of its chest, the hole dripping bits of plastic that obscured the view of the warehouse's new porthole a bit.

 

Darin dropped the bat.

 

“Good man,” I said, trying for all the world to act like I threw the murder ball at him on purpose.

 

My uninjured hand went to my arm, searching for lumps where lumps should not be. It still stung, but the damage was likely not severe, it would definitely bruise though. I moved the limb experimentally, wincing as I drew it too far back. Wait.

 

The scene was down one very tall hunk of muscle. I cocked my head to the side. “Where's your friend?” Footsteps pattering against metal answered before the two could spit out anything. I made to pull at my ears in distress, but only met the helmeted section of the gas-mask.

 

He was going for the gun.

 

I jumped upwards in an interception path, creating mats of pseudo-mass to support my ascent. I didn't notice Darin's other friend, ever the overachiever, giving pursuit until his bat flew past my head, missing by mere inches. Seriously, this person deserved a medal for the sheer amount of no-quit he held.

 

Not glancing backwards, I collapsed the platform directly behind me. The shout and sickening crunch that followed confirmed that Determination would be a non-issue for the rest of the fight.

 

I caught a glimpse of Six-Five. He would reach the gun before me. A flurry of malformed pseudo-plastics, rubbers, and assorted chaff pelted him, he raised both hands to shield his face. Another, more carefully aimed chunk knocked the gun further away. I grasped the railing, looking up just in time to see Six-Five, recovered bat in hand, winding up for the mother of all grand slams.

 

I cast out my injured arm and both tails at the offender, encasing the makeshift weapon in a coat of green which I willed to move in the opposite direction. Six-Five resisted, managing to inch the bat forward enough to glance across my gas-mask, though not with nearly enough force to do anything but make my ears ring. I “pushed” harder, eating at my energy reserves fast enough to make me dizzy. In a blur, the bar whizzed backward, Six-Five let go, but was too late to save his skull. It connected with a sound that was far too wet for my liking.

 

A jolt of panic ran down my spine, while it would send a clear message, the last thing I wanted to do was kill someone. “My god! Are you alright?” In the time that it took to materialize another platform to help me vault over the railing, Six-Five managed to take his hoodie off and press it to his leaking forehead.

 

“Fucking hell! You’re dead, you little shit!” Good, words meant he wasn't too hurt.

 

Despite the threat, his injury prevented him from planting anything more then waning grip on my tail as I approached, the blood made it easy to slip away and wrap my extra appendages around my waist. I manifested a golf-ball-sized globe of not-glass and patted him down. A fire or some kind of contained gas would have been brighter, but unstable forms took more energy and concentration to maintain.

 

After I was satisfied that Six-Five didn't have any extra weapons on him, I pocketed the gun and resolved to fix him up. It was impossible to form my pseudo-mass directly on or in other living things, so I directed a stream of not-water from one fingertip, clearing most of the blood to reveal a much smaller gash than I expected. My ex-assailant groaned as I prodded at it, thankfully enough, the bone was where it was supposed to be. I pondered my options for a moment before settling on the instant adhesive Senna uses for her plastic models. Applying a double coating was probably unnecessary, and the material definitely wasn't meant for human skin, but I couldn't have anyone bleeding out on my watch. It would fade away. Eventually.

 

With a grunt of effort, I dragged Six-Five by his wrists, forming slanted sections of pseudo-mass over the stairs to make the trip smoother on him. “I have your gun, and one of your bats are still upstairs! Give up, now!”

 

Pattering feet. I made it down just in time to see the two reaching for the door. A crudely shaped spear of not-iron flung into the wall stopped them. “Hands up, please. And don't run, it's hard to aim these things at anything other than center mass past a certain point.”

 

Determination turned and calmly raised his arms, while Darin was startled enough to fall on his bum. He stammered, “Don't hurt us man! Take my wallet, and shoes but don't hurt us!”

 

I ignored him, gesturing for Determination to take Six-Five off my hands instead.

 

“Sen- uh. My employer doesn't want your stuff. Or blood. Look, I think I hurt him more than I should have, that stuff on his forehead will disappear in a few hours and I'm not sure if it can properly plug wounds.”

 

Determination already favored one leg, bearing Six-Five's weight turned his gait into a hobble, but the only sign of discomfort he displayed was the way he tightened his features every other step.

 

For some reason, I couldn't help but feel like this incident would have to be repeated a few times before The Merchants decide to leave us alone.


	2. Pup 1.2

Sure enough, a bruise had set in. An ugly purple blight on the tawny brown of my forearm just above the wrist. I drew my sleeve back down, shuddering.

My jacket was a loose fit. Loose enough to permit the morning chill to nip at my skin, it felt more like a bed sheet than a clothing article at times. However, the thump thump thumping of hard metal against my thigh chilled my blood more than any amount of cold the gray-cast sky could muster.

I could have been shot. Had I taken just a moment longer to notice Six-Five's disappearance... With a shake of my head, I dismissed that train of thought. Still, a bullet resistant vest sounded like a worthy investment, though I wasn't certain of how much money Senna was willing to spend on me. There was a biking store not too far from home, I could at least acquire knee and elbow pads. It would allow me more places to land safely on.

I tripped over my tails.

Catching myself reawakened the dull throbbing in my injured arm, set both hands stinging. Gloves. I would get a decent pair of gloves, too. I had the tendency to shift one or both tails between my legs at times. Perfectly harmless, beneficial even, for actual foxes. Not so much for bipeds. I recovered, wiping away sidewalk-grime from my palms.

The Merchants, and most other gangs for that matter, split its territory into sectors. Each one complete with their own crew dedicated to breaking the bank, or bones of anyone living within. Failure to pay meant forcible recruitment, or worse. It didn't help that collection attempts were sporadic, unpredictable affairs. Once a month became once a week, and then twice in a single week. A fresh coat of spray paint on one's building was enough for those who could afford it to throw up their arms and move. The husks they left behind were converted into housing units or drug labs in a matter of days.

The result of long term occupation? Cracked roads and ruined sidewalks that maintenance crews were too spooked to repair, public trashcans that were either filled to the brim, or knocked over. Cats, rats, and buzzards to eat the corpses of the former thrived here. While The Merchants were far less of a threat, the ABB and Empire Eighty Eight at least took care of the territory they wrested control of.

The morning rush wasn't due until another hour. Other than a lone car that streaked by, I shared the street with no one but the odd needle or cigarette but that littered the ground.

“Hey there.” A female voice, directly behind me. Sweet in the same manner that a very good receptionist answers a phone.

I turned, politeness overriding common sense. “Oh! Hell-... no?”

A one-handed crossbow was leveled at my chest, far too close to dodge. A cartridge was attached to the bottom, giving the weapon a peculiar aesthetic. I could see the bolt; glass tipped and half filled with a clear liquid. Smaller, secondary prongs arced around the first. Probably to make it harder to remove.

I raised my arms. Modern Robin Hood was an inch or so taller than me. Her apparel consisted of an all black body suit that held the gleam of metal, an attached cloak billowing about. Her face was obscured by a full mask in the shape of a scowling person. I hmed to myself. If memory served, she was a member of the Brocton Bay Wards. Senna had a few figurines of her in stock, though her name eluded me. It was something with two Ss. Shade Shooter? Swift Swan? No, those sounded silly.

“Would you kindly not aim your sharp things at me?” I stepped to the side, away from the row of mismatched buildings and closer to the street where I would have a better chance of making a getaway through. The bow followed.

“Give me a reason.” Satan Slider (?) advanced, not a trace of saccharine left in her words.

“Because I'm not a villain?”

She looked down. Before I could make a protest, she had one of my tails in her hand, wrapped around her wrist. The grip wasn't rough, but it was intrusive nonetheless.

“Your leaking.”

“It isn't mine. Someone I owe a favor to was being harassed for protection money. She asked me to suggest that they stop. ”

Her bow went to a clamp at her bodysuit's hip with a soft click. And for a moment we stood, featureless tinted screen to perpetually scowling plate of metal. Eventually, she groaned as though I'd committed some kind of social faux pas. “That's it?”

“Pardon?”

“You're not gonna to tell me about who's ass you kicked?”

Oh. She wanted a story. Was that common amongst capes? Greeting one another with flyting, boasting, and flexing at each other like knights from a story book?

She loosed my tail. I brought it upwards for a brief inspection; matted with crimson and flecks of detritus from midpoint to tip, I shuddered at the sheer amount of ew the sight instilled. It took every iota of self control I had to not waste energy on washing it away with pseudo-mass.

Shadow Stalker motioned for me to follow, and I did, recounting the tale of Six-Five and his band of almost-men as we traversed the scum-dotted streets.

“He'll be fine, head wounds bleed a bunch.” She kicked at a pebble, sending it to the opposite side of the street. “Could've given him worse.”

Her eyes, no, her mask. Never left me, even as we navigated a crosswalk. I made a conscious effort to steer the conversation somewhere else.

“So, their letting the Wards bite into deeper parts of gang territory now, Shadow Strider?”

“Shadow Stalker,” She said, “And I wish. Crapton Bay wouldn't be in this shape if the PRT got over their red tape fetish.”

I frowned, again forgetting that my face would be hard to see through the gas-mask. “Then you're getting yourself into trouble?”

“Not unless someone happens to snitch.” She yawned, bringing her hands over her head, ending the gesture with an arm around my neck, a mite of pressure away from choking me. “If you haven't already guessed, that would be very hazardous for your health. I might even let you join me if you keep your mouth shut.”

I squirmed out of her grasp. “Consider my lips sealed.”

“Great.” She clasped her gloves together and jumped. As soon as her feet left the ground, she became a mass of smoke. Possibly weightless, with the way her momentum carried her to the roof of the battered pharmacy adjacent to us.

She went solid. “Think you can keep up with that fancy light stuff of yours?” I could almost hear her smirk.

A wiser person would have bowed out, but here was an opportunity to benchmark my free running prowess and make a friend. I leaped after her, pouring energy into a slab of pseudo-mass so it could bend and flick me into the air without shattering. I landed with a completely necessary front flip that would have made me look like a fool if I botched it.

Shadow Stalker clicked her tongue, but offered no praise. With a running start, she cleared the space between the pharmacy and the next building in a single bound. Her power allowed her to pick up speed in short bursts, though there was much more to it; signs, chimneys and other obstacles that I had to vault over or go around gave her no trouble, she simply passed through them. Rather than create cost efficient platforms to run across, I had to stay slightly above the buildings and sling myself forward just to keep pace with the heroine's reality-defying strides.

The first indication that we crossed over into Empire territory wasn't the change in street tags, but the pristine conditions of the roads. It was almost like walking into another city entirely; I could see the appeal of falling in step with Kaiser, slim as it was. Being the leader of a white supremacist organization that dabbled in the drug trade marked him out as a slightly more benign devil in a hellscape.

Abruptly, mercifully, Shadow Stalker halted a building ahead. She crouched, peering over its edge. whatever power source she drew from was infinity more vast than my own. She displayed no labored breathing, or any other hint that she had broken a sweat. Without a need to hurry, I bridged the gap between us with a few stepping plates, allowing me time to soothe my burning everything.

We had eyes above a dead end alleyway. Two men; a teen with a button up shirt, and a lithe, shirtless man whose goatee was reminiscent of a long brown drape hung from a fleshy window. He bore a black tattoo with a stylized “588” on the space between his shoulders. They were between another form and the way out. I shifted to the side, getting an angle on whoever it was.

A Hispanic man. Bald, portly, and well past any kind of prime. The victim had every reason to fear what was coming to him. But he didn't cower, or plead, or let out as much as a panicked whimper. He stood stock still, gaze darting between his two assailants.

Goat-ee produced a switchblade, flicking it open before handing it to the youth. When he didn't take it immediately, Goat-ee pressed the weapon into his fingers until he grasped it. Tutelage of the most sickening kind.

“I'm feeling nice today pops, just drop your wallet, and I'll let you stroll on by.” The youth waved his switchblade in the man's face a few times, to no effect. “God, he's not even saying anything, what am I suppo-”

The Hispanic man turned ever so slightly to face Goat-ee and moved. He threw his entire body into a headbutt with startling speed.

The sound Goat-ee made upon getting his nose wrecked was halfway between a surprised shout and a roar. I tried to stand, only for Shadow Stalker to take hold of my mask's side filter.

“Not yet,” she said, voice just above a whisper.

The first strike hadn't done as much damage as I anticipated, it staggered Goat-ee, but didn't draw blood. The ensuing fight didn't last long, Goat-ee was much stronger than he appeared. The victim threw a punch that he caught. In one smooth motion he yanked the victim's arm and tripped him.

“See what I told you?” Goat-ee said between breaths. “Nothing but a bunch of filthy street rats, the lot of them. Nick him.”

“I don't think he'll get out of this by himself,” I hissed.

“Yeah, pity.”

Shadow Stalker descended upon them in a blur, landing directly on top of Goat-ee, dropping her shadow state in time to bring her full weight against him. He stood firm instead of crumpling and threw Shadow Stalker against the wall, prompting her to shift forms again. She splattered soundlessly, spreading out in a circle against the brick surface, only to reshape and dart forward. Once more, Shadow Stalker became solid just before impact, slamming her shoulder against the man's sternum.

He backpedaled, but still attempted to retaliate, a desperate right jab went through Shadow Stalker's head, no dice. It was the last thing he did before before she introduced her knee-pad to his groin. Twice.

With the wail of a million dead generations, Goat-ee fell on his side, clutching at his tenders. clearly in no position to continue the fight, or reproduce. Rather than stepping up to rescue his mentor, the youth made a break for it.

Keeping the high ground, I set to work a pair of composite restraints. Oversized not-iron needles that tapered off into gelatinous strands with properties lifted from both rubber and carbon wire. I was quite proud of them; the idea came from a short-term capture device composed of a metal ball with an integrated cable reel that could suspend suspects from high places long enough for the police to deal with them. It had taken a week to come up with the right combination of non-materials that could bear weight and not prove impractical to materialize on the spot.

I sunk both needles into the side of the building and added more mass to the strands. They snaked downward, catching the youth by both wrists. He struggled, flailing his legs about, inciting a familiar burning sensation in my gut as I drained more of my energy reservoir into keeping him bound. I forced the gel to solidify, leaving him with both of his arms spread. Someone with a sense of humor and without the pain of what was probably an ulcer coming on would have made a crucifixion joke.

There was some shouting that I was vaguely aware of below, but my head wasn't in the right place to pay it my immediate attention. I prodded my belly with a finger. Could that happen? Could whatever sac I held my pseudo-mass production energy in get a hole and spill its undoubtedly volatile contents all over my organs?

Glancing downward kicked rumination into the back-burner with a vengeance. Shadow Stalker had a downed Goat-ee by the shoulder. She pointed a crossbow at his temple, one with a metal bolt loaded in.


	3. Pup 1.3

Yes, Goat-ee was a horrible person. Yes, Goat-ee was a horrible Nazi person. No, I would not use the above as an excuse to turn a blind eye to mutilation in cold blood.

I jumped.

Three hastily materialized plates below, staggered to provide an easy way down. My reservoir’s whining was preferable to broken legs. I heard the last one crack as I catapulted myself into Shadow Stalker’s personal space.

I ducked under her guard, rising fast enough fire a pang accross my shoulder on impact with her arm. With a backwards glance and a tail flick, a cube of pseudomass formed around Goat-ee to prevent his escape. Protection from a free lobotomy was a side benefit. 

She didn’t drop the bow as I’d hoped, but no one would be hurt if she pulled the trigger in that instant. Well, save for an unlucky bird. Instead, she maintained control of it by transitioning to a two-handed grasp. The shift clanged our masks together.

I pushed with all of my meager body weight. One step. Two. Shadow Stalker widened her stance and would yield no further ground. At least there was some margin of safety between the pointy thing and its would-be flesh sheath. I also managed to end up with my head clasped in an approximation of a forward chokehold. My ears were already bent to fit inside the gas mask, having pressure on one of them was a far from pleasant experience.

My world devolved into a mess of pain, yowling and a semi-incomprehensible string of words that should not be used in polite conversation. Shadow Stalker burst into vapors.

It wasn’t like I went through her. Rather, the fumes that made up her breaker-state billowed around me. It was an inky mixture of black, brown and silver that felt more solid than it should have running through my fingers. I imagine that the sensation wasn’t unlike brushing against a million jellyfish tentacles. I staggered forward, nearly colliding with the concrete sidewall before I could regain my balance. I turned. Shadow Stalker was facing me, hands on her hips. 

“Would you drop your force field pretty please?” She said with faux sweetness. “I promise you can get the next one yourself.”

“No.” I said. My tails curled outwards to either side, their tips alight with sheaths of pseudomass. I pushed a little more energy than necessary into them, brightening my implied threat. This was wrong to the the nth degree. Shadow Stalker was a hero, heros do not threaten immobilized, obviously defeated criminals.

“For Christ’s sake! I was only gonna shoot him if he tried to run, killjoy!” Shadow Stalker stomped her foot. I had to tighten the muscles in my tails to keep them steady.

Was she seriously pouting about not being allowed to threaten the life and limbs of a human being? Briefly, I wondered if she was one of the kids who had a fixation with drowning ant hills and lighting moths on fire during primary school. 

“You can’t do that...”

The girl in front of me was scary, plain and simple. I would not be afraid to admit it in public. Whatever I did wrong with the full face concealment thing, she did terribly right. Had it been her in the warehouse with the three dunderheads, there wouldn’t be a fight. There may have been some virtue to her disposition. 

Goat-ee, eternally calm, shifted into a cross-legged position. He had the ordacity to throw a hook-nosed leer at us. Perhaps a lobotomy would improve his sense of self preservation.

“Yup,” he said, voice distorted by his prison. “Using one of those lawn darts is likely to get you a trip up the river, girly.”

Much more gently than expected, Shadow Stalker patted the top of my mask as if to say ‘See? He’s asking for it.’’ Kneeling so that she could speak to Goat-ee on eye level, she pressed a hand against the encasement. “You’re right, I can’t, without giving some paper pusher a stroke. But if a victim were to break a dog’s nose in self defense, maybe give it a few bruises...” She looked up to the hispanic man, who had, until that moment, contented himself with watching from a corner.

He looked at each of us in turn, one hand against his chin. Between Shadow Stalker’s beat down invitation, or the man’s consideration of it, I was uncertain about which damaged my general regard for humanity the most. I was no native of Brockton Bay, or at least I think I wasn’t, but the place was far from an island within the greater sea of a continental United States. Localized social mores shouldn't diverge enough to actively encourage eye-for-an-eye mentality, cape culture or no. The notion was just wrong on a fundamental level: objectionable behavior was a mutation of the norm reserved for the morally crooked. Otherwise, parahumans would never be classified under such polarized brackets as “hero” or “villain”.

Right?

“I think I’ll turn down your offer,” The man finally said.

Right. An intangible weight dissolved around my shoulders. Goat-ee’s look of utter contempt for everyone within sight went unchanged. Fine, be unthankful for your continued ability to make ugly faces.

My stomach churned. The thug initiate was struggling against his bonds. I reinforced it until my reservoir started to burn and then cut my connection to it. My tails lashed to and fro. “Stop squirming, it’ll cut your wrists off!”

He made an “O” with his mouth and decided to sit, well, hang, very still. It was a lie, but it kept him from draining his cuff’s energy until they dematerialized. 

“-o, no. If I stay and wait I’ll be late for work and this is a bad part of town. I’msorrybye!” Shadow Stalker held a sleek touchscreen phone that was now in the place of her holstered killamathing. She held it in both hands so that on forearm cradled the other while she the tilted her head towards the receiver. She undid her cutesy posture and tapped at the device, earning a soft blip. She placed it in one of her pouches without looking.

Sirens blared in the distance. Either the situation was bad enough to warrant a heavy police presence every block or two, or fate was feeling a little generous. 

“Alright, let’s bounce.” Again, her voice transitioned from the sweet, melt-in-your-mouth tone to the grumbly, harsh one.

“That’s right, run. Bitch.” Goat-ee muttered.

Shadow Stalker’s hand twitched, coming dangerously close to her lethal bow. She shook her head and tore herself away from the scene. With a grunt of effort, she ascended to the rooftops by catapulting from sidewall to sidewall, shifting between her normal and breaker state with every jump.

I sent a half-hearted wave to the would-be-victim and followed the young lady’s trail. She actually waited for me this time. She regarded me with a nod, turned, and began a circuit through a slightly less developed series of establishments. Skyscrapers gave way to two and three story apartment complexes interposed with the occasional restaurant or family business. The jumps became a bit further in between but Shadow Stalker didn’t seem to have a problem with lengthening her strides. She only used my platforms to avoid touching the less stable-looking roofs.

“That’s it?”

“What’s it?”

“We're not going to file any reports or call your bosses so they can keep track of your work?” 

“You want me to take credit for a parahuman arrest that I was given explicit orders not to conduct without another ward to babysit me? After I spent so much time badgering the cops to not complain when I dump ganger-meat on a silver platter in front of them?”

“Sorry.”

Shadow Stalker humphed mid-jump.


	4. Pup 1.4

The sharp clanging of abandoned bags full of spray paint and plastic shaping templates joined the mad scurry of feet upon the pebble walkway. Three teens in surprisingly high-class clothing for gangers beat a hasty retreat from the new townhouse they were in the process of tagging. It was as if capes were a plague upon normal members of humanity. Well, given her track record, the look of abject terror on the blonde girl that bothered to look back had much more to do with Shadow Stalker’s presence than my own.

The last of the trio, a rather portly straggler fell on his behind four times before he managed to scramble around the corner. None of his friends made an effort to help him. He failed to notice that we made no effort to chase him.

Shadow Stalker gave me a look. She stood ramrod straight, placing a hand on my shoulder. Her grip tightened as the intensity of the silence grew.

Did I do something wrong? She did say that I could get the next one, and the three that were now no doubt very far away were the first that were actually within grabbing range of us since the incident with Goat-ee. Did she expect me to box them? Were capes even allowed to detain people for nonviolent crimes? Were they even allowed to detain people in general? She squeezed my shoulder even tighter. I wrapped my tails around each other to keep them from flittering about in a fit of nervousness.

Then Shadow Stalker laughed. She laughed hard and long enough to transition to a hands-on-knees position.

Looking into the impassive faceplate while the person behind it evacuated her lungs was odd. I found myself imagining what her smile would look like only for there to be nothing to base the picture on. “Did… did you see the chubby one?” She huffed out.

A noncommittal nod was all I offered. I felt equal parts embarrassed and nonplussed at the situation. While his stumbling may have been comical under different circumstances, I felt bad about the whole thing. This was damage mitigation without repair; scaring off or capturing people on the streets just stopped them from doing anything at that moment. In the meantime, McMurder Stick a few blocks down could find a beneficiary to donate several new torso-mounted breathing holes to while enforcers handled someone else.The worse thing about it was that there was absolutely no guarantee that harsh deterrence alone would prevent the one person they did slap on the wrist from going back to do the same thing again if they were certain that they wouldn’t be caught a second time around. That is why, I suspected, the police and big name capes wouldn’t declare a crusade against every petty crime that they were capable of stopping.

Five minutes to talk to the group would have been ideal. Even if I had to beg, bribe and cajole them on to the straight and narrow, it would do more than just scattering them.

Shadow Stalker’s lung capacity finally reached its limits, her chest heaved with deep breaths fraught with the occasional aftershock. I sidestepped her, materializing a not-sandpaper scrubber and took to wiping away the half-done graffiti plastered on to the brick townhouse.

Perhaps the word “graffiti” didn’t do it much justice.

It was a depiction of Kaiser, clad in a suit of armor fashioned out of an array of symmetric blades. His helmet ended with tall protrusions that gave the impression of a high profile crown. Black and gunmetal grey contrasted with the half-done orange of the sunset behind the man’s back, making his cross-armed pose look all the more intimidating. I didn't know that graffiti could be done with enough skill to properly be called a mural, or that people with such skill would be willing to waste it on such an endeavor.

Well done or not, it too perished at the hands of the scrubber and jets of not-water from my tails like the last two crude tags I dealt with along the way. It was more removing a layer of the brick and washing it away than actual cleaning, but it was the best I could come up with on the spot.

“They're just gonna put another one up.” Shadow Stalker’s steps swayed to one side. She held her stomach with one hand and propped the other against the wall.

“I’d rather them have to go through the effort of starting over if they want to finish it that badly. Besides, I’ll be doing...” I leaned to the side so I could read the realtor's sign. It was sunk in next to a blue-grey dolphin themed water fountain that was at least tall as myself. “Tempera and Son’s a favor by not leaving pictures of Neo-Nazis all over their property.”

“Fine, I have places to be though. Have fun.” Shadow Stalker gave a half turn before I called out.

“I don’t know how to get back alone.”

“That’s your problem.” She shrugged. I felt a bit injured to be honest. Not because she was trying to dodge the boredom of idling away while I cleared yet another gang tag, but that she would abandon me to do so.

“You’d leave me all by myself to get roughed up by Empire capes?” I suspended my assault on Kaiser, leaving bits of his helmet sloughing off onto his pauldrons.

I looked up at Shadow Stalker with both hands at my chest, allowing my tails to drift about the same way I would when asking Senna for something. Without the exposed ears I doubted that it would be nearly as effective, but I wouldn’t give up without trying.

Shadow Stalker groaned, holding out a hand that I promptly deposited another scrubber into. 

For a moment, there was only the sound of scraping and not-water jetting against the grainy building material. While it took me many vertical strokes to make any progress on destroying Kaiser’s chest, Shadow Stalker leaned forward, putting her entire body into circular scrubs, one palm over the other. She removed much more material at a faster rate than my meager efforts. I tried my best emulate her actions without bumping shoulders with her.

I coughed softly. “Your… methods, don't you think they’re a bit excessive?”

“‘Course they are, that’s why they work,” Shadow Stalker huffed. She scrubbed at the remaining pieces of the background, raising herself up on her toes to reach the highest parts. 

“Before I got shackled into the Wards, the Empire didn’t even have a foothold here. They knew I’d beat them down, and their capes had better things to do than spend their precious time squashing a single vigilante playing holdout on a few city blocks, even if it was on the nicer side.

“Spray.” She said, backing up a bit. I obliged. Revealing a clean spot that was a brighter shade than the surrounding brick.

Another lull. Eventually we reached the point where we needed to crouch to get the last bits of spray paint. Her cloak when combined with normal viewing distance masqueraded Shadow Stalker’s profile well despite the nigh skin-tight nature of the body suit beneath. In the position we were in, I could see where the metal plates were sculpted around, not over, her proportions. Where one could tell that certain costumes were made to make the person wearing them appear more athletic, closer inspection revealed that she actually had the build.

“The way those stiffs are doing things only works if you outnumber the people you’re trying to keep down. There’s too many villains and lowlifes around for it to work. So what do you do?” She tossed me a glance, letting the rhetorical question hang. “You beat them bad enough to scare all their friends, that way you don’t have to overwork yourself for a poor yield. And, if you happen to get your kicks out of it, all the better.”

We left the townhouse after disposing of the remaining art supplies into a nearby trash bin and penning a hastily written note on the building’s doorstep to apologise for the discoloration left on the brick. Well, I did. Shadow Stalker just tapped her foot and shook her head impatiently.

The rest of our patrol went without significant occurrences. We circled back to the litter-ridden street I first encountered Shadow Stalker on. As our feet went from roofing to concrete, the cloaked crusader gave a sigh.

“You sure you can find your way back from here, or do you need me to hold your hand?”

“Nope. Thank you very much.” I shook my head and tails in tandem. “You’re a really nice person, you know that?”

“Don’t… Mention it.” The first part of her sentence sounded a lot more acidic than the second. It was as though she aborted a harsh remark midway. She grumbled something to herself that I doubt any sane person would repeat in front of a parental figure before settling on holding out her hand again. “You got a cellphone?” she asked.

She produced a device of her own and after a few deft taps of her fingers asked, “What should I put you down as?”

I scratched the back of my neck, immensely thankful for the tinted gasmask preventing the display of heat rushing into my cheeks. “I haven’t come up with a name for myself yet.”

“Well, better decide quick, or the PRT will slap something stupid or embarrassing on you.” With a flourish, she handed my phone back to me, replacing her own in the same motion.

With a hastily executed farewell, I began the short trek home. I must have misjudged the time, staying out for hours longer than I first intended. There was foot traffic in abundance.

And they were all staring.


	5. Pup 1.5

I am not one for crowds. I first discovered that aspect when Senna unveiled my presence to the local small business owners around our block as “a cape that I hired to get rid of our Merchant problem.”

The battery of thank-yous, small gifts, and questions about my previous work experience was enough to make me yark. In my mask. I need not mention that it was far from a pleasant experience.

A toddler walking astride his parents pointed excitedly at me.The other hand, linked with his mother’s, flapped up and down in a blur. I caught something close to “Look! Look! Doggy!”. Directly ahead, three girls loitered around the front door of Journeyman's Flapjacks and Crepes. Maybe it was in my head, but I could feel them tracking me with their eyes, even as I walked by. Another girl with dark blonde hair and a fox-like grin sat alone in the patio area with nothing but a mug of coffee and an open notebook. Her cellphone was trained on me. When I glanced in her direction, her smile grew and she waved. 

I sheepishly returned the gesture. A bubbling sensation sank its claws into stomach, relenting only after I ducked into an alleyway.

With the internal justification that making it easy for any Merchant affiliates to track me, and consequently, Senna, down was inadvisable to the nth degree. I stuck with backroads and less traveled by areas. Five or so minutes added to the trip was a small price to pay for security.

See? Perfectly justified. 

If the main streets of Merchant territory were in disrepair, than the side streets were a step away from complete destitution. Many buildings of the same conditions that I held my “negotiations” with the protection money collectors loomed overhead. Houses with sunroofs and points of ingress provided courtesy of decay were the most common of features. Here and there, plywood or some other poor quality plugging material made them more livable; squatter or ganger hovels. They were few and far in between, but I opted to steer clear of them.

The last hide I passed before drifting back into the more civilized sector emitted a haze that had no business coming from a fireplace. I got close enough to note its building number for future reference. Whether it was a drug lab, a drug den, or just a single vagrant with a stash of contraband, it wouldn’t do to have their presence within the area destined to be cordoned off. That was a problem for later, however. 

One needs to understand that Brockton Bay isn’t necessarily an ugly city. The talk on PHO about it being a cesspool is only applicable to some broad yet very specific areas. The good parts, however, were rather discordant. Apparently city planners came and went like hero teams. They either get caught up in corruption plots, leave for greener pastures, or are asked nicely to consider another job when they don’t accept bribes.

Senna’s residence was a two story affair made of wood, next to another home of concrete, next to yet another built with some kind of semi-artistic grey organic rock pattern with little white lines between each head-sized stone that I had the urge to trace with my fingers every time I walked by.

Between the street and the residential district, a small park complete with rainbow hued swings, seesaws, and benches lay. The street ebbed into a footpath that cut through its center, leaving incautious passerby vulnerable to being kicked in the face by children traversing the intricate jungle gym that wound around the entire ensemble.

No one was there, though it wouldn’t be much of a problem were that not the case. Everyone on the street knew about Senna taking me in. Journeyman’s kids were nice, too. Even if his youngest, Bennie, favored my tails over his teething ring.

Approaching Senna’s front door, I pressed my finger against the deep bronze keyhole. First, a gel-like form to fill in the shape, followed by hardening and a grip extension. With a click and a push, the door creaked open.

I neglected the light switch in favor of a soft glowing globe of pseudomass about the size of my closed fist. This was supposed to be Senna’s day off; she often fell asleep on the couch after binge watching Earth Aelph movies. Low and behold, I could hear the tell-tale musical cues of a horror or suspense flick further in.

On the counter separating the living room from the kitchen proper, no less than forty Armsmaster figurines stood guard. They held their halberds in the “at-ease” position, halberds oriented blade-up so that they looked like a small platoon of pikemen awaiting marching orders. The sharp off-metallic smell of freshly applied blue and silver paint penetrated my mask. Each of their die-cast spartan-abs glistened with the faint glow of the artificial lighting. I frowned, they hadn’t been there when I left.

I couldn't tell Senna not to do anything, but I could whine about sleep deprivation only being staved off if she actually slept during the days she didn’t have to set foot inside her shop.

“Aha!”

From behind, two hands lifted my gas mask with practiced ease. A soft thunk was made as it found a place on the counter. Another, softer, clang reported the death knell of Armsmaster # 13. He will be missed.

My ears snapped upwards, warm blood rushing back into them after hours of being cramped. Before I could so much as utter a word of startlement, Senna turned me around by the shoulders.

At five feet and eleven inches, she was quite tall for a person of Japanese descent. Her height was even more apparent when one considered her willowy frame. Raven hair that was long yet well kept snaked over the right side of her collarbone in a neatly braided ponytail.

“Hey. Should I tell the guys to buy some champagne?” She gave me a broad smile full of expectation. It made me want to squirm away and shove my head the sand of a beach far far away.

I shook my head. “Sorry. They ran away without agreeing to anything.”

Senna floofed my ears until they perked back up. Her hands were a tad cold.

“Don’t you worry about it. Appearances count for a lot. You’re making everyone safer by just being here.” She pulled me into a tight hug. Right around the arm that was still throbbing from earlier.

I yelped. Senna un-clinged, muttering apologies all the way. She threw the light switch, asked after the cause of my woes and proceed to roll up my sleeve with supreme care.

“I’m fine, really. They got got much worse than me.”

Senna didn’t lift her grimace. She chewed on a sentence that wasn’t forthcoming, breath starting and stopping before she finally gave up.

“Can’t tell you to not get banged up with what I’m asking you to do, can I?” She asked, retreating to a glass cupboard above and to the right of the old gas-burning stove. She rummaged through various pill bottles and a single model glue dispenser that definitely did not belong with the medicine before returning with a tube of bruise cream. She placed it atop my head, giggling when I went cross-eyed trying to look up at it.

“You might want to shower first, you smell like a zombie.”

After a cursory glance at the souvenir sampling of all Brockton Bay’s best had to offer hitched to my tails, I couldn’t agree more.

Bathing was quick and efficient. Substituting pseudomass with water until my reservoir started to burn allowed me to wash my back without looking. Taking a hair drier to my tails was another matter.

It was embarrassing to ask for, but it beat having them laden and soggy for half an hour. That felt like having two extra arms wrapped tightly in a cold, damp towel that you either had to keep raised, or drag across the ground where it would pick up all the dirt and detritus that you just rid the things of.

I applied the medicine to my arm, trying to balance “liberally” as the tube suggested with, “don’t waste Senna’s money, you ungrateful wretch”. The throbbing was still there but it didn’t hurt nearly as much.

Seeing as I was unlikely to go anywhere else for the rest of the day, I donned a set of fox-themed PJ’s. Senna said that they looked cute, my opinion on the matter meant nothing because I didn’t pay a dime on the excessive wardrobe she deemed me fit of having.

The woman in question peeked upwards, as I made my way back downstairs. She patted a spot on the couch besides her, a small table placed between the small flatscreen and the couch proper had two cups of vanilla ice cream loaded with an inordinate amount of chocolate chips.

My mouth watered as I tossed Senna a glance. “Thank you very much!”

“No prob.” She smirked, as though what she offered me was but a small favor.

Sweets, chocolates and the those little powdered sugar packets especially, were a great weakness for me. I snatched up the bounty, almost compulsively. A single spoonful was enough to send my tastebuds to Nirvana. I had to tie my tails around my waist to keep them from waving about. I accidentally battered Senna with them the last time.

A brownish-tan ceiling fan spun lazily above, casting inordinately long shadows over moderate blue and white flashes coming from the tv. The dvd player in a nook under its stand read forty or so minutes and counting in neat digital numbers.

The screen itself offered a grisly bird’s eye display of a skiing resort. Spiders the size of a small bear bounded after a crowd of unrealistically attractive teens fleeing in an even more unrealistic ordered line.

“Jhonathan?”

And so it begun. Senna thought that I might figure out my name if she were to shoot off enough of them. A kind gesture, but not a necessary one. I honestly did not want to know who I used to be. Rather, I was afraid of finding out who I used to be. Why open a possible can of grief if the status quo was beyond perfect?

“No, sorry.”

“Gerald?”

I shook my head.

“Sam? ”

“Why do you keep trying that one?

“Dunno, you look like like a Sam to me.”

“Senna.” I said, allowing my spoon a respite amongst the surviving flotilla of chocolate bites in their sea of melted ice cream. “Call me anything. I won’t mind, really. It doesn’t matter if I recognize the name or not.” I could, of course, just lie and say that she got it right, but that would lead to further inquires about my lost identity. She was too nice to me.

Faintly, I registered a shrill cry of victory. A glossy green-grey arachnid burst through the roof of the lodge at the top of the ski resort’s tallest hill, caught a poor sod with a broken leg, and not-so-cleanly traced its oversized forelimbs through his guts.

“I was alone when you found me, and there were no missing child reports on the news. I don’t know how long I've been away from home. I don’t know if this city, or this country is even home

Is at.”

Again, she tilted her head to the side as she considered it, sighing as she’d done every time before.

“So what? A lot of Case 53’s have it the same way, but you’re not totally mutated. Maybe there’s a better chance of you regaining your memories than some other guy. If you give up on your past you might not get it back. Don’t you want to see your parents?”

“What happens if they don’t want me back?”

Senna gave me a most serious frown, complete with over exaggerated pouty-lips “Then they’re stupid stupid heads who are stupid!” She said. “Who wouldn’t want you?”

I didn’t answer. Whenever I voiced simple truths, Senna would blow me off or get angry. Even if she never hit me, or yelled, I didn’t want to impose on her mood. Instead, I focused on staying awake through the film.

It was much more difficult in practice than in theory. There was still ice cream left un-devoured, but tiredness, the comfortable wafts of cool air from above, and the squishiness of the couch made fighting the sandman rather difficult. My eyes drooped, I sniffed as I grasped at whatever cords of vigilance remained. Senna’s hand smashed through my defenses with contemptuous ease, delivering the coup de grace via head pats.

I felt myself sinking.

The blanket Senna draped over me was thick. Its weight just enough to provoke my joints into yowling complaints of their soreness. I should have expected it, jumping from roof to roof like a loon for an extended period of time. An orange and white striped pillow lay on my stomach, unused.

Groaning like a troll with a migraine, I rolled off the couch and disentangled myself from the resulting human-burrito. Odd. This predicament was usually reversed for the two of us.

The overhanging scent of garlic and cooking oil permeated the air. probably liver, the most abundant choice of meat in the freezer.

I raised myself up with outstretched arms and a yawn.

Only to choke halfway at the sound of a dropped dish against marble floor tiles, Senna shrieked.

“What are you doing here?!”


	6. Chapter 6

Soreness evaporated in a haze of worry-born panic. I twisted into a standing position, my tails disturbed the air with an audible fwap as I flicked them up and out of the way. The mad thrumming of my heart against my chest reached all the way to painfully stiff ears. Vaulting over the couch without stumbling proved trivial.

Heels slammed against marble, leg muscles strained, lungs cried out in displeasure with each harsh intake of air.

I messed up. I messed up big time. In my carelessness, I let the Merchants or some other unsavory figure track us down. Unwritten rules or no, the situation couldn’t be that uncommon, all it would take would be one maverick with no regard for their personal safety. Senna was pretty; if any scumbag had a mind to do something to her...

I’d hurt them, I wasn’t proud of the thought, but I’d hurt them. Badly. A pop not unlike a blunted snapping of fingers sounded above my shoulder. The light was intense enough to mar the corner of my vision, the generated globe oozed bits of pseudomass that dissipated before it reached the flooring.

I bounded into the kitchen, aiming for the nearest not-Senna body present.

And paused.

“Ojii-Chan!” Senna wrapped her arms around a man just a mite shorter than herself. He was more wrinkles than deeply tanned skin, a tuft of white hair clung defiantly in the shape of fullness but half of its substance. Dangling from the ring finger of the hand that was not busy returning the gesture was a spare key on a short length of black chain. Beside him sat two suitcases.

Shards of a dropped cup dotted the floor. It was as if fallen Armsmaster #13 was flung from a window. He reached for his halberd, just out of grabbing range. The smirk of grim determination remained plastered to his face. Truly, never has there lived a paragon of justice as stalwart as he.

The globe fizzled out of existence, leaving little motes of light and a slight tinge from my reservoir in its wake.

“If I knew you were coming I’d cook for three!” Senna disentangled from the hug, patting his shoulders thrice.

“And spoil the look on your face? Never!” Senna harbored a slight accent, her L sometimes sounded like a short R. One of the first things she asked of me was to point out whenever she slipped up until it became a rarity on the verge of dying out. This man had no accent at all, and spoke with the kind of calm authority one sees from a politician.

‘Ojii-Chan.’ I didn’t know much Japanese, only snips from little things Senna taught me in our idle time. Given his age, I was absolutely certain that it meant grandpa rather than uncle.

Brushing a lock of loose hair away. Senna turned to deactivate the stove, deposit a stack of liver and mixed greens on a serving plate and emitted a short “Oh.” as she noticed my presence.

My tails flitted, unconsciously preparing for the rest of my body to turn around though It was much too late. The sizzling pan may have covered my entrance, but there was no escaping an unprepared and awkward introduction now.

“Come here, come here!” She gestured to me with both hands, palms up, confirming my fears. As soon as I got within reach she steadied me by my upper arms for presentation.

Left, right, and then than far left enough for me to have fallen over without her support, she rocked me with her chin rested on my shoulders. A warm hat whose sides brushed up against my ears.

“This is the guy I was telling you about over email, we still haven’t settled on a name but I think we’re getting closer.”

“Hello mister Hisai.” I managed to stumble out without whining. Even though I’d only been active for a grand total of one day, it was much easier talking to people in my capacity as a cape. Find problems, dispense justice, inspire a sense of security in those around you. Rinse, wash, repeat. Establishing new connections came with a myriad of different nuances that could end with a negative result if just one thing was botched.

Senna’s grandfather scowled. Case in point. Did I guess the surname of the wrong side of the family? He relented in his silence only after I was done with so much fidgeting. I had to manually remove my ears from their place, flattened against my head.

“I’m so tired of hearing, ‘Mr. Hisai’ this and ‘Mr. Hisai’ that, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remind me of work. Takashi is fine.” He sounded annoyed, but he smiled as he brought my hand in for a tight shake.

“Right, sorry mist- Takashi.” I corrected myself.

Turns out that Mr. Hisai (It felt improper to regard him as anything else in my head, despite his request; he was Senna’s father’s father!) wasn’t hungry. After the swift wipe and salvage operation of Armsmaster’s Last Stand, he saw fit to sit around and listen to his granddaughter.

Senna set her cup back against the redwood table with a dull clink. There was space for twelve seats, so it felt a bit bare with all of us huddled around a single corner. It came with the house, and I was certain that Senna would have sold the thing if it wasn’t a good platform for crafting displays and custom tabletop environments. Of course, everything was a good platform for such things but having so many in-progress jobs laying around at random didn’t seem to bother her much.

“Shop’s doing fine, but it’s mostly exports.” “You know, some guy in Manchester wires us money for a Brockton Bay Ward figure on Saturday and we deliver it to them by whatever middleman’s cheapest. Haven’t had nearly as much foot business since the Merchants moved in.”

Senna leaned sideways ever so slightly, stretching her fingers out towards me. Her place at the head of the table wasn’t optimal for ear floofs, even with the chair tipped nearly to the point of no return. Our eyes locked in a battle of wills which I lost nigh instantly. I inched my head towards her so she could easily capture my left ear by the base with her fingertips, rubbing the rest of it with her palm. I bit the inside of my cheeks.

Why? Why must you embarrassed me so?

“Buuuut, I guarantee all of that’s about to be settled. My very special guest just ran off a few Merchants pushing a ‘protection tax’ on us earlier today.”

Mister Hisai pressed his thumb and forefinger against his chin, passing me a furrow-bowed look. “Young man, do you understand what you’re agreeing to?”

I wasn’t sure about how to answer that question.

I’ve lurked around Parahumans Online at Senna’s behest to mine as much information I could out of the forum posts from the few Case 53’s that messed with the site. Success was minimal. General cape issues however, were quite easy to dig up.

A high turnover rate for independent heroes happened to be the most glaring aspect.

“Before you answer.” He said. “Kappa, Senna’s surrogate father, fell in combat with Leviathan, he sacrificed his life, his ambitions, his free will, so that others could retain their own. Are you willing to do the same?”

Senna told me about Kappa the first day she took me in. He was a hydrokinetic that usually protected shipping companies from pirates when Japan was still… Japan, though his fate went unmentioned. I had my suspicions, but the way she talked about him, the endless stories. It was obvious that she loved him very much, bringing up his possible death didn’t seem like a wise thing to do.

“It won’t be like that!” Senna slammed her palms against table, the vibrations traveled down my chair leg and into my tails. I didn’t even notice that I’d wound them around the wood. They throbbed pitifully upon release.

Hand raised, Mister Hisai continued in the same measured tone he began. “Even still, It is important that he understands the risk. Being a cape is no game of cops and robbers. He will be walking side by side with death and you will be responsible for sending him on his way.

“Boy, my son was a fool. A kind fool but a fool nonetheless. Avoid unnecessary risks, do not bite off more than you can chew. You will do much more harm than good by dying.”

Senna bristled. It was the most horrible expression I’d seen her bear.

“It’s okay.” My voice sounded distant, muted, like it wasn’t my own. “My dream is to be a hero, just like Kappa, my ambition is to repay Senna for the comfortable life she’s given me.”

Mister Hisai sighed. Whether it was in satisfaction at my answer or silent condemnation, I was unsure. He rubbed at his temples. “Be awake at six.” He finally said. “I want to see what you can do. Everything.”

He left, taking his suitcases with him. A lump settled itself in my throat. He probably meant the best, even if his words were harsh.

I cast a wane smile Senna’s way. “Are you okay?”

She wouldn’t look at me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took quite a while to churn out. I went through two rewrites of a 3K word document until I nixed it all and came up with this. I'm not sure if I'm totally satisfied with it. My dialogue, both internal and not, seems highly conceptual. It feels like it tries to go deeper than it should. I try to balance this out with a focus on grounded things like the senses or a character's physical surroundings, but meh.


	7. Pup 1.7

“Huh, early. You’ll want to make a habit of that.” 

There were no chairs in the kitchen, though Mister Hisai made due with one of Senna’s workstools. He sat, one leg crossed, thumbing through a smartphone. With the kitchen window draped over, he almost looked like the shrouded figure one sees when a children’s show hints at new villains. Replacing the tee shirt and long black exercise pants for a crisp suit would complete the illusion.

With a stretch and inaudible yawn, he reached back to the counter. Sleep-stiff joints creaked as he hefted a grey and yellow bag by its top handle. “Here,” he said.

I blinked. The upper half was just air. Plastic scrapped against plastic within as I tested its insubstantial weight. One of two water bottles tucked into the side netting chilled my arm, a block of ice trapped in silicone. 

“Senna packed breakfast for both of us. Secure the extra straps so it doesn’t jingle around too much.”

“Huh?” I cocked my head to the side, even as I followed instructions. “I thought you wanted a demonstration.”

“I do.” Mister Hisai stood, turning his phone towards me. A GPS app displayed a thick yellow line from Senna’s house to the furthest reaches of what the map defined as Brockton Bay. “Carnegie’s Camping and forest trail is an hour’s walk, we should be there in a little over half of that.”

Without further instruction or clarification, he stepped out. I scrambled to cram my ears into my gasmask as I trailed behind. To my utter dismay, he’d stepped off into a jog as soon as he left, already a quarter to the edge of the playground by the time I shut the door behind me.

“W-wait a minute!” I sprinted, the near-sickeningly sweet remnants of peppermint toothpaste clouded up my mask. Even if the actual filter was long deemed derelict and removed, the thing still bore a sub-par performance as far as letting air out of the crowded space went. 

“How does this have anything to do with a demonstration?” I huffed out.

“Cardio test. You going to catch a criminal when you can’t even keep up with an old man?” He flashed me a smile full of white teeth that seemed out of place with his thin lips.

He leaned forwards, carrying himself a bit faster. A pit of distress settled in as Mister Hisai glided around an uncared for wastebasket with footwork that would snap a lesser man’s ankle at his age. In all honesty, he’d probably slow down if I asked, though I never did.

It certainly wasn’t pride. More like a need to please a man I’d only just met? Fear of being seen as a disappointment? A bit of both?

In any case, I got very intimate with a view of Mister Hisai’s back. He would glance rearward every moment or so, tapering into a half stepping gait that carried him more upwards than forwards whenever I stopped to walk. The pace never got extreme enough to make conversation untenable, though the constant pressure to keep moving or be left behind mandated that I save my breath. 

Concrete, street signs, and stuffy air gave way to thick, healthy trees and underused man-made trails as we moved further and further away from civilization. The bag may have felt like nothing before, but the halfway mark turned it into an annoyance bearing down on me with every step. 

By the time he called it quits I was a wheezing wreck. Mister Hisai, for his part, was just as sweat soaked as I, but didn’t seem phased by the endeavor. I didn’t know whether I should be amazed at his physical prowess or mortified at my lack of the same.

I pulled off my mask with the full expectation of the ground underfoot acquiring a new salt water lake. A picnic table with two seats made of long, single slabs of wood on either side sat down range of a public grill full of ancient ash, the scrubber attached to a metal ring and wire was mossed over and littered with cobwebs.

I sat, grateful for the chance to put my legs to rest. The exhaustion from the small bit of “training” with my powers before was child’s play compared to this. It was one thing to practice jumping from one roof to another until I felt comfortable with it, and another to perform a sustained jog until I felt the burn all the way to my stomach muscles.

“How?” I clutched at my knees, lungs desperately seeking air. I didn’t bother with slowly easing myself into the seat, I just dropped. I pressed my cheek against the side of the table, rife with carvings and crude, immature pictures drawn in sharpie. 

“Ex-JSDF,” Mister Hisai stretche, touching his fingertips to his toes. “Bag, please.” He motioned me over in the same odd manner that Senna sometimes did: fingers astride each other to curl towards his palm, they pointed downwards rather than up. 

I leaned back and spread my arms, allowing him to lift my burden. It was the least, and most I could do.The fact that I found Mister Hisai’s gesture weird was in and of itself weird. With my effective life spanning far less than a year, my greatest influences on the million of little social nuances and common phrases that made up a person’s means of communication should have come from Senna. It reminded me of what she said about “uncovering” my past.

No. I flattened my ears in dismissal of the thought. That wasn’t an avenue I was interested in, even if it were possible. So what if there was a bit left over from my old self? I’d be like a newborn otherwise. There were no names, no special images or lingering thoughts to hold out for, seeking them out would complicate things. 

Mister Hisai dropped the guttered bag by the table sans shame or ceremony. He took a seat on the opposite side, sliding a plastic lunch portable my way, followed by a now blissfully cool bottle of water.

The box held a heavily brutalized omelette with onion bits and cheese oozing from it like a grievous wound. It lay between a pile of pumpkin flax, assorted dried fruits, and some wrapper-bound thing buried underneath. I idly pushed away the pile with the attached spoon, it was a king sized Three Musketeers bar. 

Running robbed me of my appetite for the more common fair save for the water, though I soldiered on just to get at the chocolate without fear of seeming childish. It was well worth the feeling of bloatedness that came from wolfing down breakfast. Truly, Senna was my favorite person. 

“Alrighty then. Spill.”

“Hm?” I asked around the bottom third of the chocolate bar.

Mister Hisai pressed a piece of scratch paper against the table with one hand, twirling a pen in the other. His breakfast lay half eaten to the side.

“Your powers. Give me the full story, as detailed as you can manage. ” 

So I did. The barebones answer of “I can make stuff out of thin air and throw it around.” was unsatisfactory, explaining any further proved difficult. I knew the “what” but not the “hows”

Mister Hisai patiently scribbled into the page regardless, managing to get one side and a half’s worth of notes, mostly from observations of what it felt like to create and sustain my constructs. Gasses and liquids requiring more energy and effort than simple solids, the constant amount of energy it took to keep the more complex things around, and exactly how far my production and control range extended.

“Can you make a copy of this?” Mister Hisai pointed at his pen.

“I can try...” I frowned. It wasn’t born of discomfort, I was long accustomed to the slight burning that arose from my reservoir's use, like suppressing the urge to gag at bitter medicine. It just took more thought. What should the pin feel like? How exactly did the spring fit over the ink stick, things like that. Surely enough, the thing materialized, the little hospice inscription on the side was hard to make out because all I had to work with were shades of green, but it was still readable in the light. 

“Here.” I offered the not-pen with both hands, more than a little proud of my work. It trembled and collapsed into so much green chalk dust at his touch.

Two more attempts, the first punched a small hole into the paper with just a mite of pressure, the other spilled the entirety of its “ink” all over the table before it left my hands.

Mister Hisai must have read the frustration on my face when he stood. “Don’t worry about it for now. We’ll do this thrice a week. Same time, same resting spot.” 

He didn’t offer a chance for me put forward a complaint. Not that I would speak up with one. I fully understood his motivations. He cared about Senna’s safety, a task that that I decided to champion. An investment in my fitness meant a job better done.

By the end of the first week, I got used to the morning runs. That didn't make them easy. I did not enjoy fighting for my next breath as I pushed my body to cover a distance that I could have simply catapulted myself across. Anyone who did was was likely a hair's breadth away from mentally disturbed. 

Some good was reaped out of the miserable affair, however. I wasn’t found lacking for a sense of purpose. Mostly because I was too tired to introspect for more than a few minutes. Senna worked to rally the local business into a meeting to gather up all the legal hoops needed to get me officially registered as an independant hero. The Brockton Bay News Network, or BBNN, agreed to cast my debut legitimate appearance on the streets.

Yes, I did lose sleep over that.


End file.
